


Hell Can Wait

by estepheia



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, Post-Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel and Spike are on the run from the Senior Partners. But what's the point of running?<br/>Written 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Can Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: for Josey (Sangpassionne) and Tania.

Whenever he arrives in a new town, Angel pauses for a moment or two, like a dog sniffing out a new territory. The ties he tried to deny for years, the bond he pretended did not exist – now he searches the very air for a trace of it. Fingers twitching almost imperceptibly, he waits for that unmistakable tingle down his spine that is one part pull, and two parts irritation, and which tells him Spike is near. 

The last time they met, they barely had a minute before their pursuers caught up with them. "I have it up to here with this country," Spike shouted, running a black-clad, red-haired Tengu through with a samurai blade. "Couldn't you pick some place civilized?"

"Like what? Brighton?" Angel grabbed two attackers by their necks and smashed their skulls together with a resounding crack. They fell without another twitch.

"Anything's better than sodding Japan."

Spike was right. Going to Japan had been a mistake. None of the priests or monks had been willing to give them shelter or aid them with spells of concealment. Not because they were demons but because they were gaijin, foreigners.

"Let's try the Old World again." Angel suggested. He hooked his foot underneath a katana blade that lay on a dead body, flipped it up, caught the handle and decapitated one of Spike's assailants.

"See you there then," Spike said, and broke into a run in a magnificent display of grace and speed. After only six paces he whirled around, the tails of his coat slicing through the air. An almost buried part of Angel memorized the image for yet another drawing he'd never have the time to commit to paper: the unslicked black hair, the bottle-green shades, the play of light and shadow cutting Spike's reckless grin in half.

Whatever Spike wanted to say got lost when a nearby manhole discharged more enemies. Angel leapt through the air, came down near the hole in the ground and started to hack and slash at the attackers as they climbed up.

By the time Angel had taken them out, Spike was gone, probably dodging his own attackers or laying a trap for them somewhere.

Angel turned to run as well, but he headed in the opposite direction. They had decided years ago, about three weeks after taking out the Circle of the Black Thorn, that they were both faster on their own, harder to track, and harder to kill – two moving targets, forcing the Senior Partners to spread their forces thin. At least that was the theory.

"Makes sense," Spike had said when Angel suggested they should both go their separate ways, and added with a frown: "Loners, that's what we are, you and me, mate." God knows why Spike had picked that particular moment to finally agree with something Angel said.

Sometimes their paths crossed and they had a few hours to talk and make plans. They weren't just on the run, they were also searching for someone or something powerful enough to protect them from the Senior Partner's wrath, and that took some arguing over. But other than that, they never had a lot to say to each other. They never dared talk about the past, and they knew they had no future. What else was there?

One time they did not talk at all. One glance was all it took and they charged each other like starving dogs. Only a fraction of a second before collision, anger transformed into something else entirely. Frantic hands grabbed strands of hair; hard mouths tasted every inch of exposed skin, rough and demanding; fingers fumbled with zippers and buttons, then closed around rock-hard erections, and then they were pulling and rubbing and jerking, for once not thrusting into their own hands. Hoarse whispers in the dark, curses and insults, hurtled them towards a desperate, knee-buckling, spine-racking release. As unpremeditated and as unstoppable as a thunderstorm.

It left them both hollow and strangely dissatisfied.

"You think the Senior Partners will ever stop chasin' us?" Spike asked, as he pulled up his zipper and buckled his belt. He did not meet Angel's gaze, but checked out rooftops and both ends of the street as though trying to decide which escape route he wanted to take.

"Never," Angel said, feeling very much like a crumbling rock in the middle of a torrential stream, pummeled and irritated and ultimately whittled into insignificance by a never-ending barrage of tiny pebbles and grains of sand. Right now he wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and sleep for a few years.

"Thought so." Spike dug out his cigarettes, lit up, and inhaled deeply. The simple act seemed to require his full attention.

"I heard of a temple in Kyoto," Angel said after a long pause. "The abbot has the Sight. Maybe he can help."

"Japan?" Spike shrugged. "Yeah, well. Why not."

They parted with neither of them commenting on what had happened. And why not? It wasn't like it would ever happen again.

From Japan, Angel went to England to meet with a few people from the new Council of Watchers. Unhelpful bunch. No sign of Spike in London – or Brighton. Nor in Holland or Germany. Italy then? Turned out, Spike wasn't in Rome either, although Buffy still was. Two awkward hours, bittersweet for both of them, ended with a trashed restaurant and Angel taking flight once more. At least Buffy's help bought him a ten day reprieve before the Senior Partners' henchdemons caught up with him again.

Another town, another hunt for a place to shack up for the day, a quick break in for cash or a new car, and then on to the next town, always on the run, hoping against all hope that the Senior Partners will grow tired of the merry chase. That they'll act like businessmen and cut their losses, because chasing two vampires around the globe is a waste of money and resources. Just not cost-effective. Angel often wonders if Spike is still running or if he's dust already.

He feels he ought to be able to sense it, if Spike passes away, but he never felt anything when Spike burned to ashes inside the Hellmouth, not even a twinge of heat. Nothing.

After nearly three years of zigzaging across Europe, Angel finally tastes him on the wind: Spike – in Paris of all places. Angel does not waste time laying false trails, he just races over rooftops in a straight line. He ends up in a dark back alley and on the loading bay of a meat packing plant. The smell of blood and raw meat is overpowering, strong enough to obscure any scent Spike may have left.

The lock is broken, the alarm disabled. Angel pushes the back door open and slips inside, instinct guiding him from room to room, until he ends up in a huge walk-in coldroom. Pork bellies dangle in neat rows from hooks in the ceiling, some of them swinging like pendulums. The hum of the cooling units mingles with the noisy flicker of a malfuntioning neonlight. Suddenly a body barrels into Angel, slamming him against a white tiled wall.

"What took you so long?" Spike is sputtering with fury. "Three years. Three fucking years. Thought you were blowin' in the wind by now." After giving Angel another shove for emphasis, he lets go.

Angel notices that Spike's hair is blond again, long and honey-colored.

"I thought you didn't like France," Angel says. It comes out half accusation, half apology. 'And I didn't think you'd care,' he almost adds, but instead he straightens his coat.

"I don't, but Dru said I'd find something here. Didn't think it would be you."

"Dru?" Angel blurts out, a customary stab of guilt causing his gut to clench. And not just guilt, something else is twisting and turning, uncoiling inside him. "And how is she?" he asks, hating the petty tone of his own voice and hoping that Spike doesn’t notice it.

"Dead," Spike answers curtly, in a hollow 'I don't want to talk about it' voice. "Dust."

"Oh," is all Angel can come up with. He racks his brain for something else to say. "I'm sorry. How? Was it you who—?"

"You think I could do that? Kill her?"

Unbidden, memories rise to the surface like shiny bubbles, perfect images recorded with an artist's eye. Spike combing Drusilla's hair for over an hour, while reciting poetry. Spike's hands around her slender waist, as he lifts her up and whirls his dark princess around like a young maiden on her first ball. Spike showering Drusilla with presents, white roses dyed in blood, strings of pearls, beautiful dresses; laughter; kisses.

"If you had to," Angel finally says.

Spike scowls and flicks his half-smoked cigarette aside. "Yeah, but that's not the point."

"Then what is?" 

"Point is, I'm sick of running," Spike says, "And so are you." He slams his fist into one of the pork bellies, causing it to swing back and forth like a boxer's sand sack.

"We don't run, we die," Angel tells him. "We die, we fry. Hell's waiting, Spike. Or did you think saving a baby and taking out the Circle got us off the hook?"

"I know it doesn't work that way," Spike says, slightly deflated. "But this?" He spreads both arms wide then lets them drop to his side. "This is just a variant on Sisyphus' curse. We may not be pushin' some rock up a mountain slope, but we're sure as hell not getting anywhere either."

"They'll come up with something, Buffy, Willow, the Council… All they need is more time." Lather, rinse, repeat. If Angel says the words a hundred times, maybe he'll start to believe them.

"Time, yeah," Spike mutters. The bleakness in his voice matches Angel's lack of conviction.

Angel's thoughts fly back more than three years, past Japan, back to that dark alley, where somehow his hand had ended up inside Spike's pants. A mistake. Not the worst he's ever made, not by far, but still a mistake. You can't turn back time. And yet his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out.

"Well, run along then," Spike says and turns away. "Go through that door over there, and you'll find plenty of blood. Can't run on an empty tank, right?"

"What about you?" Angel bursts out, suddenly hit by trepidation. They're all gone now, even Dru. Okay Buffy is still alive, and that's comforting to know, but it's not enough.

"Like I said, I'm sick of it. I mean what am I running for? Just to keep my butt out of the fryer? 'S not enough," Spike says, eerily echoing Angel's thoughts.

Before he knows it, Angel strides after him. His hand darts out and catches Spike's arm. Spike stops, but he doesn’t turn.

"That's it? You'll just roll over and let them take you out?" Angel yells.

"I'm hoping to take as many with me as I can, but yeah, that's the general idea."

"One glorious showdown that will go down in history: William the Bloody, making the Alamo look like a picnic?"

"Why not? Go out in style. I mean, what else is there?" Spike's shoulders hunch into a weary shrug. "Although I was thinking more along the lines of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

"No," Angel says.

Another shrug. "Viva Zapata, then."

"No," Angel says again, more firmly. Somehow his fingers are still gripping Spike's arm, and Angel means to let go but instead he pulls and Spike allows himself to be turned around. Finally he meets Angel's gaze. Defiance burns in his eyes, but there's also a flicker of something else.

"How much time do you think we have before they find us here?" Angel asks, but then he shakes his head. "Never mind."

When Angel's hands dart out, Spike tries to dodge, as though he expects Angel to knock him out, but when Angel cradles his skull between both hands to pull him in for a kiss, Spike does not resist.

Spike's hair is as coarse as Angel remembers it, a man's hair, but it might as well be silk for the effect it has on him. Fuck. Angel threads his fingers through the shaggy strands, then catches them in his fist. Spike isn't going anywhere.

Spike yelps, but Angel's mouth silences him. Prying Spike's lips apart doesn't take a lot of coaxing. Angel's tongue darts in before either of them has fully realized what's happening. Spike is panting into his mouth in a ragged, needy rhythm that goes right to Angel's balls like an electric charge.

"You're an idiot, Spike. You know that, don't you?" Angel pulls back to catch a lungful of unneeded breath, then dives back, to muffle the indignant reply with his mouth. 

"You say the nicest things," Spike manages to get out, before Angel catches his lower lip between his teeth – not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly. It's something Angel always wanted to do, well maybe not always, but often enough. If this is a mistake, then Angel doesn't want to know.

Suddenly Spike's hands are stroking Angel through his pants, fondling his straining cock and his balls, not too gently, and Spike is rocking against him, rubbing his hard-on against Angel's thigh with the desperation of a drowning man.

Angel catches Spike's wrist in a vice-like grip, stopping him. "Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid, did they fuck like crazed weasels at the end?" he asks, although he knows the answer.

Spike shakes his head, confused, angry, and hurt. He tries to pull free, but Angel does not let go, not until he has made his point: "Then it's a lousy ending," he says.

Spike stares hard, searching his face for what? Angel knows.

"Don't you dare die on me," he says gruffly.

Spike looks startled, and a hesitant, timid smile washes over his face.

They might have five minutes or five hours before their enemies pick up their trail and barge in, yet Angel feels his mouth curl into a lopsided grin. His hand slides underneath the waistband of Spike's pants and he pulls Spike closer.

No more running alone.

 

END


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